Trading Heroes For Ghosts
by mystic rainman
Summary: He saved them all. He just couldn't save himself.


**A/N: Warning for substance and alcohol abuse.**

**TRADING HEROES FOR GHOSTS**

He took another swig from the bottle.

The liquid had stopped burning his throat. He was sitting on a bed. The liquid now crept down smoothly, warming his belly, numbing his senses. Freeing him from reality.

His brain registered dull thumping coming from his flat, shouts, a cacophony of jubilant voices. A soft giggle was heard nearby. He narrowed his eyes, trying to focus. A scantily clad girl, black mascara and multiple piercings galore, slid towards him. One hand snaked upwards from his belly, under his half-open shirt, up his torso, up until his neck. The hand then jerked his head down to her face.

She tasted of cheap whisky and cigarette, of coke. She tasted of blood.

His eyes flew open, and horror invaded his senses. Roughly pushing the girl away, he stumbled out of his room. The girl laughed.

His mind seemed only to capture images, blurred and smokey. Two guys were snorting some white powder on the white table. A broken television set lay in the corner of the room. A couple were passionately kissing on the torn sofa, the guy snaking a hand under the girl's leather miniskirt. Two girls were arguing loudly in another corner, cursing crudely. Smoke rose in a haze from a hookah another junkie was smoking.

The room smelled of sweat and sex, of alcohol and cocaine. The room smelled familiar.

Bile rising up his throat, he rushed to the washroom and disgorged his dinner.

To stand up, he had to take the help of the wash basin. He looked in the mirror.

Jet black messy hair hid a part of a long scar, engraved on what otherwise was a handsome face. A pair of brilliant green eyes shone from within the tresses. Eyes looking much older than the twenty-four years they have witnessed. So much horror in such a short lifetime.

He tore himself from his own gaze, splashed water, closed his eyes and rested his forehead on the basin.

_It was a dull grey desert. Here and there were barren trees, leafless, growing out of the ground, looking like fleshless fingers trying to tear at the clouded sky. _

_He could barely manage to walk. He knew his right arm was shattered at a number of places, and he probably would never be walk properly again, thanks to the curse Lestrange put on him, moments before he pushed his wand up her throat and reductoed her skull._

_He stumbled, fell, got up again, moving from figure to figure on the ground. The green fields before Hoqwarts, the site of the last great battle, were nothing more than a wasteland now. _

_He looked up, squinted and saw a couple of crows flying in circles, crying their death knell._

"_Ginny! Ginny! Hermione! Ron!"_

_No one answered. _

_He heard harsh coughing from his right. Within the ashes, he spotted a tinge of red._

"_Ginny!" He cried and rushed to her. Taking her in her arms, he cradled her head securely within the crook of his arms. He brushed her once beautiful hair away from her face._

"_Oh God! Ginny!", he moaned. _

_The left side of her face was completely burned, even the scalp not spared of the horror. The viens on her face protruded out, with a dark purplish tinge. Blood was oozing out steadily out of the side of her neck._

_He immediately put his palm against the open wound, trying to control the flow. He knew his minute knowledge of healing wouldn't do any help in this situation. Looking around frantically, he brushed some strands of copper hair from her forehead, he kissed her forehead tenderly._

"_Its gonna be okay, babe, its gonna be fine. You're gonna be okay" he kept murmuring, tears flowing freely down his face._

"_Lily.. camp.." Ginny managed to gasp out._

_Terror flooded his heart, paralyzing him. He just sat there, looking at his wife._

_Ginny had managed to grasp his cloak with a hand. "Lily..", she whispered._

_Shaking himself violently out of his statis, he quickly put her on the ground and started running towards the site of the medical camp._

_The camp looked as if it had been bombed. Only a tattered part of the covering tent remained, flapping eerily in a noiseless breeze. Bodies lay everywhere, adult and child-size flesh mashed together. A couple of survivors were screaming for help. He ignored them, looking at the rubble frantically._

"_Lily! Lily!"_

"_Daddy", a whisper._

_He jumped, and ran towards the noise. There she was, buried under a few loose metal hangings of the roof. _

_Copper hair had turned muddy; her pale face ashen. Dull green eyes, half closed, as if begging to go to sleep._

_He gently took his four year old daughter in his arms._

"_I'm here, sunshine, I'm here. Daddy's here. Don't you worry now."_

"_Daddy, I feel cold." She whispered and looped her arms around his neck. He rocked her back and forth a couple of times._

_Her arms fell loose._

He gasped loudly, breathing erratically. Green orbs, once so passionate about freedom and righteousness, now seemed dead, longing only for that blessed emptiness.

He moved towards _her_ room, the only part of the house where no-one but him was allowed entry.

It was dark in this part of the suite. And quiet. He switched on the light. A small room came into focus, its wallpapers a soft pleasant blue. Stars littered the ceiling. The small bed lay in the middle of the room, a fluffy pink pillow surrounded by a multitude of soft toys. A desk lay in another corner, a couple of colouring books on the floor near it. A box of crayons lay open, along with a half-completed drawing of a horse with a horn on its head and wings on its back.

His eyes fell on a photo on the table. A small, copper-haired girl squealed happily in the arms of a young red-haired woman, as the woman tried to tickle her at her ribs.

His breathing grew harsh as he mutely saw the picture. He glanced again at the room. He touched nothing.

He closed the door, started walking unsteadily to the empty balcony. He stepped onto the railing. He could hear the sound of the vehicles below, honking and screeching.

A massive poster hung over the adjoining skyscraper.

"Potter for Minister!"

He started laughing. A laugh devoid of any emotion.

"Fucking fate" he whispered to himself and smashed the bottle to the floor.

And stepped forward into nothingness.


End file.
